


On the Job: Part 2 - Payback

by Blondie54x



Series: On the Job [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a rescue, Napoleon finds Illya tied to a chair - time for a little payback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Job: Part 2 - Payback

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 2 of a 2 part story.

_Garden City, Kansas, June 1964_

Illya was behind this door.

Napoleon knew it, as sure as he knew his own shoe size. He could home in on his partner with the accuracy of radar, and his uncanny senses were telling him Illya was here, in this room, behind this door.

Without giving it a moment’s thought, he turned the handle and pushed. Locked, of course. Nothing ever came easy in this job. Impatient to find his partner, he raised his leg and kicked at it with all his might. It held fast.

“Dammit!” He had no more time to spare on this. Frustrated, he removed his gun, firing four bullets around the perimeter of the lock. The wood splintered, fragments flew in all directions, weakening the area and this time when he aimed his boot at it, the door gave with a satisfying crack, flying back so hard, it smacked into the wall and rebounded, almost hitting the agent in the face.

Napoleon stopped the door with a hand and peered through the entrance. The room was in darkness. His hand searched the wall by the doorframe, found the switch and flicked it on. The dim bulb lit up the centre of the room, too weak to reach the corners.

And there in the middle, tied to a wooden chair and illuminated like the star turn on a cabaret show, sat Illya Kuryakin, dishevelled, grimy, but in one blessed piece. Napoleon almost laughed in relief.  

Illya looked up, blinking theatrically against the light as he tried to frown. Napoleon wasn’t fooled. Behind that fierce glower, he knew his partner was relieved to see him.

“Napoleon. How nice of you to turn up. Where have you been?” he demanded, trying for petulance but only succeeding in whininess.

Napoleon slowly strolled forward, knowing full well his dawdling would irritate his partner. “Well, to get here I had to fly across six states and then drive clear across Kansas, before battling with half the satrap in the Northern Hemisphere and finding my way through this labyrinth Thrush calls home.” He stopped before Illya. “Sorry I’m late. Are you okay?” he asked, leaning forward to brush a fringe of hair out of Illya’s eyes.

“I’m fine, though the last hour or two has been somewhat tedious waiting for rescue. Did you catch Peridew?”

Napoleon grinned. “We did. Who do you think gave me directions on how to find this place? Once I had my hands round his throat he sang… well, like a thrush.”

“Good.” Illya shook his head in irritation. “Pompous ass! Listening to that megalomaniac waffle through his lengthy and monotonous plans for world domination was the worst torture I’ve had to endure at Thrush hands. If you had arrived sooner, you could have saved me from hours of torment.”

“I said I was sorry.” Despite his situation, Napoleon could tell the experience hadn’t been as bad as Illya would have him believe. Death by boredom? There were worse things to consider.

Illya sighed, somehow managing to make it sound like a magnanimous gesture. “Well, you’re here now, so I suppose you’re forgiven.” He looked up slyly. “Though I will expect some kind of recompense for the inconvenience.”

A promise of things to come. Napoleon felt his heart beat quicken. He’d been thinking along the same lines, once he’d got his partner back and safely home. Illya could always be appeased by a little lovemaking. Napoleon was good at saying sorry – in fact, he looked forward to it. Illya, he’d discovered, was an inventive and uninhibited lover. When it came to sex, that scientific mind, bursting with curiosity, was always prepared to experiment, always happy to take risks. As in so many things, Illya was unpredictable and spontaneous.

Just like that time at the stake-out in Paris. He’d been happy to compensate Napoleon for the time he’d spent looking through those damned binoculars. Now, Illya expected compensation for his troubles.

_Hmmm_. Well, there was no time like the present. Upstairs, business had been concluded with the surrender of the Thrush operatives. Most of the UNCLE team would be occupied with the clean-up. Napoleon had Illya alone and to himself.

They wouldn’t be missed for a while.

Napoleon smiled and Illya’s eyes narrowed in concern as they recognised the look on Napoleon’s face, the look Napoleon got when he was plotting and scheming. Illya chose to ignore it and said, “Will we be getting out of here any time today? I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Napoleon replied, using the sort of tone that Illya had only heard on very intimate occasions. Napoleon gestured with the gun in his hand, using it to encompass Illya from head to toe. “And I have a delicious banquet laid out before me. And it’s all mine for the taking.”

“If you’re that hungry, I’ll treat you to a hot dog on the way home,” Illya offered. Napoleon shook his head, that smug smile still on his lips, leaving Illya in no doubt that his lover saw him as the main course - and Napoleon looked very hungry indeed. Illya shook his head. “Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Napoleon just grinned, confirming Illya’s suspicions. Illya looked agog. “In a Thrush cell? Now I know you’re crazy.”

Napoleon shrugged. “You’re hardly in a position to object, my friend.”

“I didn’t say I objected. I was merely commenting on the your mental state. Don’t you think it’s a little risky?”

“You, of all people, objecting to a little risk?” Napoleon shook his head as he re-holstered his gun and unsheathed a knife instead, apparently intent on releasing the Russian from his bonds. Instead, he stood back a couple of feet from his partner, and paused, looking thoughtfully from the knife to his seated friend. “You know, this reminds me of something.”

Kuryakin’s response was simply a raising of his eyebrows in question.

“Back in Paris. Remember? I was stuck watching for Marton and you… took advantage of me.” Napoleon reminded him, tossing the knife into the air and catching it by the plain bone handle as it came down.

“Ah, yes,” the blond replied slowly, as if the memory had to be dredged from the deeper recesses of his mind. “I do remember. I was merely helping you to relieve your boredom. And I don’t remember you complaining at the time. But then, your attention was elsewhere, as I recall.” Illya grinned, reminiscing.

“Well, I could hardly object. You had me tied, albeit metaphorically, to those damned binoculars. And a good UNCLE agent never deserts his post.”

Napoleon smiled to himself at the position he’d found the Russian in. And a long-suppressed fantasy rose to the surface of his thoughts: Illya as captive, Napoleon as captor, free to do whatever he desired with his hostage.

“And now the situation is reversed,” Napoleon continued, waving his knife around like a conductor’s baton. He moved closer, straddling the blond’s legs, leaning close to his face. “Ironic, don’t you think?” he said, as he lowered himself to sit astride his partner. “Hope I’m not too heavy for you?”

Illya grunted. “I’ll let you know when I lose the feeling in my legs.”

“As long as it’s only in the legs,” Napoleon replied, resting his hands on Kuryakin’s shoulders.

Illya glanced at the knife near his face. “Were you planning on releasing me sometime today?” he asked reasonably.

Napoleon seemed to consider the question. “Mmm, sometime soon, maybe. But not just yet.” He wriggled about, deliberately chafing against his partner’s groin. “I rather like you in this position; helpless, vulnerable. Completely at my mercy.”

Illya squirmed, trying to give his rapidly swelling erection some relief in the cramped confines of his pants. “Aren’t you taking chances? Someone may come.”

“Oh, I’m hoping so, Illyusha, I’m hoping so,” Napoleon grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry, the stairs are at the far end of the corridor and made of metal. We’ll hear them long before they reach this room.” He shifted, positioning himself snugly against the bulge in the Russian’s trousers, enjoying he feel of his hardness against his own rigid cock. “Now, let me see, where to start? Ah, yes….” He leaned forward, claimed his partner’s mouth in a passionate kiss.

The rest of the world was forgotten, the noise outside, the cacophony of distant voices, the rumble of vehicles as the UNCLE team cleared up the remaining Thrush employees on the floor above. All were tuned out as Solo’s senses focussed on the man he had pinned to the chair.

Illya; soft, warm and pliable. The rising heat of passion came through the Russian’s thin cotton undershirt, despite the cold of the basement room. Napoleon’s hand glided through silken strands, clenched tightly around the fine hair to anchor the Russian in place – not that it was required. He knew Illya was going nowhere and was enjoying this just as much as he was. It was all a part of Napoleon’s fantasy, this mastery over his untamed Russian wolf. Illya’s wildness was part of his attraction: Napoleon didn’t want him too compliant. He shook the mane of hair and Illya responded, struggling weakly against the mild assault. Napoleon replied in kind, his kiss becoming hard, verging on brutal, as he took possession of this man. It was the power, the domination over the bound Russian that almost dismantled his control. Napoleon forced himself to slow down, gentling his kiss and soothing his partner with caresses, losing himself in the sensation.

Had someone chosen, at that very moment, to stomp down the metal staircase in wooden clogs, Napoleon would have been too far beyond reason to notice – or care. All his attention, all his awareness was centred on his captive: the feel of Illya’s mouth opening to his marauding tongue; the rigid column of flesh trapped beneath his loins; the heat emanating from Illya’s body; Illya’s hand carding through Napoleon’s hair, while the slender fingers of his other hand played sensuously up and down Napoleon’s spine….

_Wait a Goddamned minute!_

Napoleon pulled away from the kiss so suddenly his partner blinked in surprise. Napoleon grabbed at the wrist nearest his head and shook the offending appendage. “How long have you been free?” he demanded.

Illya drew in a deep breath and shrugged. “Just before you came in.”

Napoleon looked oddly disappointed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Another shrug. “You were here to rescue me. I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Well, you’ve spoiled my fantasy,” he pouted.

“Fantasy?”

“Yes. I have this fantasy, where I have you tied down and completely at my mercy,” he said sulkily.

“Oh,” Illya said simply. Napoleon had fantasized about him? A smile spread slowly across his beautiful mouth. “In that case, who am I to spoil your fun? You’ve earned your reward.” His arms reached behind his back, gripping the spindle uprights of the chair, in the same place they’d been when Napoleon had entered the room. “Proceed,” Illya said, imperiously, his chin thrust forward in mock defiance in his role of captive. “What comes next?”

Napoleon paused to consider his suddenly tractable partner, then smiled. If Illya was willing, Napoleon was able. He wiped the smile from his face and quickly fell into character. “Okay. Well, then I take this knife – this very, very sharp knife,” he said, carefully caressing his partner’s cheek with the blade edge. “And …” The knife moved down his front, the tip slipping under the hem of the undershirt, easily slicing through the cotton, making its way carefully up to the neck, until the final piece was sliced through, leaving the undershirt gaping open.

Illya wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or the situation that made his nipples so hard and erect, but the cotton covering was chafing the sensitive little nubs in a delicious way. It was a relief when Napoleon gently eased the two sides of the shirt apart to expose Illya’s chest. Napoleon stared, entranced by the sight. Perfectly formed, almost hairless - Illya had a body most men would either envy or lust after.

He was roused from his ruminations as Illya shifted, impatient to proceed. “What next?” he asked, the question coming out on a heavy breath.

Napoleon’s eyes, dark with passion, rose to meet his. “Then I taste….” Solo’s head dipped, his tongue rasped and flicked across the sensitive mound of exposed flesh, making Illya’s skin pimple with goose-bumps.

All Illya could do was hang on to the chair back, resisting the temptation to touch his partner in return. This was Napoleon’s fantasy and if his partner wanted to ravish him, then who was he to complain….

Ah, but it was agony, torture, being unable to reciprocate. He appreciated what Napoleon must have gone through that night in Paris, invisibly bound to his post on watch, unable to participate. It was quite a turn-on.

Napoleon was lightly chewing one nipple while his fingers plucked and rolled the other. It was fast becoming difficult to breath. If Napoleon didn’t hurry this up, the team would walk in on them - if he didn’t have heart failure first. He withstood the torment for a few minutes more, than gasped out, “What… what next? In your fantasy, I mean,” he gasped.

“I’m not finished yet,” Solo said around a mouthful of nipple.

“No, but I will be if you don’t move on. What comes next in your fantasy?”

“Shh!” Napoleon chided him impatiently, covering Illya’s mouth with his free hand. “Did I mention that in my fantasy I have you gagged?”

Illya knew how to play this game: he mutely shook his head, keeping his mouth firmly shut. Napoleon leaned forward and kissed his obedient lips. “That’s better.” He slid backwards off Illya’s thighs and knelt on the floor before his prisoner. A hand on each of Kuryakin’s knees pushed them apart, and Napoleon shuffled forward between his partner’s thighs, sliding his hands along well formed quadriceps, up bony hips – not enough meat here – until they reached the waistband of Illya’s pants. Napoleon’s fingers edged along the seam to the fly, quickly slipped it open.

Illya’s groan of pleasure as the pressure was taken off his hard cock, sent shivers down Napoleon’s spine. Impatiently, Napoleon’s hand dipped into Illya’s shorts, found his prize and claimed it.

Illya barely had time to savour the freedom, the feel of cool air against his naked flesh, before Napoleon’s mouth engulfed his erection. The pleasure was excruciating as Napoleon licked around the sensitive skin on the head of his cock. Illya fought for control of his body, managed to keep his hands anchored in place but cracked one of the wooden spindles he held too tightly.

Napoleon was sucking him, taking him so deep into his throat that his nose was buried in the soft fur at the base of Illya’s cock. It was a form of gratification Illya usually took the time to savour but, by necessity, this had to be short. The rest of the UNCLE team could appear at any moment, so Illya concentrated on the sensations, the powerful suction created by Napoleon’s lips, the feel of his erection touching the back of Napoleon’s throat, Napoleon’s practiced hands kneading Illya’s balls. Illya watched, entranced, as his cock slipped in and out of Napoleon’s mouth, while Solo used his considerable expertise to help bring his partner to completion.

Illya groaned as he felt the tension build in his groin, the pleasurable contraction of muscles as they delivered the first burst of ejaculate deep into Napoleon’s throat. The almost unendurable pleasure as Napoleon gulped it down, making the muscles of his throat tighten around Illya’s cock, milking it, draining him of the last drop. Napoleon kept the cock in his mouth until the last spasms died down, strangely comforted by the hard organ he nursed. Eventually, Illya pulled his penis slowly from Solo’s hot mouth, moaning as the crown of his cock slid over Napoleon’s lips.

Napoleon looked up at his lover, licking the remnants of Illya’s love from his lips before standing. He looked into Illya’s eyes, glittering with passion, and leaned down to place a kiss on his lips. Illya took the opportunity to pull Napoleon nearer and, as they kissed, Illya fumbled about blindly, his fingers finding and tugging at the belt on Solo’s pants, hurriedly drawing down the zipper.

Napoleon was painfully hard, desperate to feel his partner’s hands on him. But suddenly, Illya froze. Napoleon opened his eyes at the cessation of movement. “Don’t stop,” he whispered against his partner’s mouth.

“Shh! Listen,” Illya hissed. Napoleon’s head turned towards the ceiling. A clunk; a creak. The sound of heavy footsteps moving down the metal staircase.

“Christ!” Napoleon cursed, hastily yanking up the zip past the uncomfortable bulge in his pants as Illya rose from the chair, knocking it over in his haste. They managed to move apart just as a figure appeared in the doorway.

Mark Slate, dressed in fatigues and looking like he’d just showered and shaved. “Ah, there you chaps are. I thought we’d lost you, Napoleon.” He nodded in the direction of Kuryakin. “I see you’ve found our wayward Russian, then.”

“Erm, yes,” Napoleon said, straightening his jacket and smoothing his hair back into place. “We were just, ah… we were just…”

“We were just searching the room,” Illya explained quickly. “They took my gun and you know how much Mr. Waverly hates replacing expensive equipment.”

“Don’t I just. He’s never let me forget about that miniature camera I lost in the Sahara last year.” Slate took a step closer, glancing between the two agents as he holstered his gun. Something had gone on here: there was a strange tension in the air. “Are you okay?” he asked Kuryakin in the ensuing silence. He tugged meaningfully at the shredded undershirt.

Illya smiled faintly. “I’m fine,” he replied, fussily pulling the two halves of the garment together. “But I think Napoleon’s finding things… hard,” he said confidentially, as he brushed closely by his partner on the way to the door.

Mark looked puzzled, though he mistakenly thought he understood. It was the same with April and himself, the relief at finding your partner safe and in one piece. The need to touch, to reassure yourself that they were solid. All agents understood. It was easier for men and women, but harder for men to show their feelings to each other. Had he interrupted an uncharacteristic display of emotion? He decided it would be prudent to leave them alone for a few moments. “Well, we’re ready for the off. I’ll be waiting upstairs, then.” Mark left.

Napoleon looked frustrated, though it wouldn’t be for long. A short drive back to the hotel and he would have Illya all to himself, if he could persuade Mr. Waverly that Illya needed to recuperate before he was debriefed. Besides, Napoleon had plans for his own debriefing. He adjusted the tight fit of his pants and smiled wanly at his partner before following Mark out of the door.

Illya looked pleased, smug in the knowledge that his unfulfilled partner would have some time to dream up ways of being repayed. Napoleon was more inventive than Illya, when it came to bedroom callisthenics.

He pulled the door to his cell closed behind him, leaving the room and its secrets behind.

**The End**


End file.
